The Day We Meet Again. Miranda Dickinson
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to help. Now, what’s happening?’
I’ve heard loved-up friends of mine say things like, ‘I see myself in his eyes’, and ‘when he looks at me it’s like he can see into my soul’ and always thought them ridiculous. I mean, I’ve dated guys with nice eyes before and I’m a fan of meaningful looks as much as the next person. But until this moment I thought it was the kind of clever phrase dreamed up by authors and screenwriters. Not anything you’d ever experience in real life. But when I lock eyes with Sam, it’s like nothing I’ve experienced before. And I can see my reflection in the moss green of his irises.
‘I don’t know,’ I say, embarrassed by the tremor in my voice. ‘It’s just I wasn’t expecting this. To be so sure. I feel like I’ve known you forever, but I know hardly anything about you, about your life.’
He nods and I wonder if he feels it too. ‘Then we should start there. Even if there are other more interesting things we could be doing…’
He’s cheeky but I can’t help smiling. ‘Be serious.’
‘I’m trying. Believe it or not my friends think I’m the serious one. Okay. Best start with the basics, I guess. Full name: Samuel Hamish Mullins—’
‘Hamish?’
‘Mock that and you’re mocking my heritage, lady.’
I stuff my giggles away behind my hand. ‘Sorry. It’s a lovely name.’
‘Tsk, typical English sarcasm. I know your game.’ He grins. ‘So, what else? I’m thirty-two, although my ma always said I was born with an old soul so nobody ever believes me when I tell them my age. Like I said, I was born on Mull, but I grew up in Edinburgh and Carlisle and moved to London when I was eighteen. Been here for more years than I’m comfortable admitting and I play tunes for money. I’m just under six feet tall, but I’ll usually add an inch to feel better about it. Oh and I’m allergic to early mornings, although I’m quite glad I got up before eleven today. Done. You?’
It’s strange to be trading introductions now, after everything else we’ve shared, but I find it strangely comforting, too.
‘Phoebe Eilidh Jones, also thirty-two.’
‘Eilidh? That’s not a very English name.’
‘That’s because my great-granny was an Erskine from Paisley.’ I like this card when I play it. He clearly had me pegged as a dyed-in-the-wool Anglo Saxon. Shows what you know, Samuel Hamish Mullins. ‘She moved with my great-grandad to Evesham to take over a fruit farm with six children in tow.’
‘So, Caledonian heritage all round. Excellent. I don’t know any Eilidhs but I have an Auntie Ailish – she’s not a blood relation, but my ma’s best friend. I’m going to see her when I get to Mull.’ He chuckles. ‘So in another life we might have been Hamish and Eilidh. It has a ring to it, don’t you think?’
‘It does.’
‘Continue, Phoebe Eilidh Jones.’
I giggle. ‘Okay – I’m five feet six inches exactly and I’m quite happy with that. And I love early mornings. And late nights, actually. I don’t sleep much.’
‘How come?’
The truth is, I don’t know. I remember as a kid being concerned that I’d miss something important if I slept, although I don’t know where that fear originated. ‘I’ve just always been that way. Although every few weeks I’ll have a day when I just sleep a lot. Maybe it all evens out in the end.’ I grin at him. ‘So we’re the same age. When’s your birthday?’
‘March 2nd. You?’
‘May 4th. My life, I’m lusting after an older woman!’
I cuff his arm. ‘Oi, watch it!’
‘Hey, I’m not complaining. So what do you do for work – or rather, what did you do, considering you’re taking a year off?’
‘Oh all kinds of things. Most recently I’ve worked in a publicity office for a large West End company. It’s fun.’
‘But it’s not what you wanted to do?’
‘I like every job I’ve done. For a long time I thought I’d end up working in horticulture – I trained as a horticulturalist at college. And then I came to London to see my friend Meg and ended up staying. Then I did my PhD while working for Ebert and Soames Theatre Productions. But I do know that books will always be my first love. That’s why I’m going to Europe.’
The thought of the journey makes my heart drop to the floor. Because getting on that train, whenever the gods of Network Rail deign that to be, will mean leaving Sam. And this. And us.
We talk. About everything.
Well, everything we can think of, which in the grand scheme of things probably isn’t even scratching the surface. The urgency takes me by surprise. It’s as if we’re trying to conduct a whole relationship in a few hours. Packing everything in so we can justify what our hearts knew immediately.
She sparkles when she learns stuff about me; shines when she shares things about herself. Playing catch-up has never been so thrilling.
And she’s so close to me. On her rucksack perch, the length of one thigh is against mine and although I’m no longer holding her hand she keeps touching my arm as she talks. I feel like a kiss is in the air between us. One move from either of us could bring it into being.
It would be so easy to kiss her.
But I can’t let it happen yet.
When you’re always on tour – or always on call for a gig – you tend to make decisions quickly and regret them at leisure, but it’s like you’re in this loop. More times than I’ll admit, I’ve started a relationship, gone away and returned in time for us to both admit it wasn’t working. A weird way to conduct relationships, but then nothing about being a gigging musician is ever regular.
So much of what I’m learning talking to Phoebe is about myself. I even tell her about Laura – and though it’s been six months since she left me for an annoying Russian conductor and stamped all over my heart, I haven’t wanted to talk about her to anyone before.
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Phoebe says and I’m struck by how genuine this is. Most people say sorry when what they really want you to do is change the subject.
‘It’s hard to make relationships work in my line of business. Always heading off in opposite directions, too many hours between meetings to stop doubts setting in.’ I realise how close this might be to Phoebe and my current situation. I push the thought away. ‘With Laura, I thought I could make it work. And it did. Until the other bloke appeared.’
‘Was Laura a musician, too?’
I nod. ‘She’s a session singer who also plays cello, violin and viola – and when string sections cost the earth to hire, she’s a good person to know. In a few hours she could record all the parts a string quartet would perform, for a fraction of the cost. Saving money appeals to studios and record companies, so she always had more than enough work to keep her in one place. And I liked that, in the beginning. It was good to know she was there, even if I was called away on tour for weeks at a time.’ The rawness returns to my gut. Time to move on. ‘Anyway, she chose someone else. I started working to make the studio happen with my mate Chris and here we are.’ I decide to hedge my bets. ‘So, Gabe. Is he an ex?’
Her eyes widen and for a moment I think